


One Long Night

by round_robin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Doctor!John, Established Relationship, M/M, Oral Sex, Sherlock is an idiot, not series two compatible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-12
Updated: 2012-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-29 10:24:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/318864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/round_robin/pseuds/round_robin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's tendency to starve himself during a case usually isn't too bad. Until the case takes two weeks and John can't stand to watch him waste away any longer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Long Night

**Author's Note:**

> Not beated or Brit-picked, so all mistakes are mine. I really like doctor!John, so I feel I'll be writing a lot of him. :)

The anger inside of John boiled higher as he watched Sherlock sway on his feet. Lestrade had his arm around the detective—steadying him—as he walked them up to the office. “Just a few reports need your signature as a consultant. Because it was such a long case, but you know how it goes.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock nodded, eyes barely staying open as Lestrade guided him up the stairs.

Yes, John thought. It really was a long fucking case.

It started two weeks ago. Actually, sixteen days. Sixteen days ago, Sherlock took this stupid case. The case that sent them across London—twice daily—and down to Cardiff. Four fucking times. The case itself wasn’t even that complicated (or memorable) things were just so damn confusing.

It was a simple insurance fraud case. Plus seventeen different beneficiaries, all claiming single inheritance. Plus eight different versions of the will (three forged). Plus three different law firms handling the eight versions of the will. Plus two of the beneficiaries hiring their own private detectives to refute Sherlock’s findings, and one beneficiary hiring a gang of thugs to beat the information out of Sherlock. It was the very definition of a clusterfuck.

But the worst part? Worse than the three hundred quid in taxis that Yard now had to reimburse them for. Worse than the two cases against Sherlock and John for unlawful search, and stalking. No. Those were fine. If that was all they had to deal with, John would walk naked through the streets, singing with joy at the top of his lungs. Anything but this. Anything but the fact that during those sixteen days (sixteen days, nine hours, forty minutes) Sherlock had neither slept nor ate.

Well, he slept just enough to keep himself running—which still wasn’t enough, barely three hours of every twenty-four—but the eating. That was the big concern.

That’s why John couldn’t really remember the case. He was too focused on watching Sherlock literally let himself waste away. And John was pissed.

With every day that passed, John had to watch the circles under Sherlock’s eyes get deeper, and darker until they were veritable canyons of exhaustion. With every pound Sherlock lost, John’s blood pressure went up. If the case hadn’t ended when it did, Sherlock would’ve died from starvation and John from an aneurism. At least they would’ve died together.

Actually, John would have to revise that. The worst bit wasn’t watching it happen. The worst part was watching it and not being able to _do_ anything about it.

He and Sherlock had been a couple for a few months. Ever since the pool… they didn’t want to get into it, but things were clearer now, and neither Sherlock nor John ever wanted to live without the other. That was all good, it was fine. Better than fine, it was bloody amazing. But they weren’t “out.” They both agreed on that: their relationship was theirs and theirs alone. Sherlock said it was because he didn’t want his enemies to use John against him. The detective shook in John’s arms as he told him his greatest fear: coming home to an empty flat. Note pinned to the door. Sheets stained with blood. The idea of anyone hurting John to get to him disturbed Sherlock more than a little.

John, on the other hand, had more selfish reasons. The world outside saw Sherlock as the cold, unfeeling sociopath. But that wasn’t him. That wasn’t the man John got to see. That man was kind, feeling—a little too deeply at times—and tender. That’s what he wanted to keep. All those private moments when Sherlock showed how much John meant to him, how he couldn’t live without him. Those were what John wanted to keep. Because they were precious, and they would remain private.

At least, that was the plan. Until John saw Sherlock nearly collapse on the top stair into the office. Then John snapped.

“Alright! Stop!” He yelled.

Pushing past Donavan, John marched over to where Sherlock stood next to Lestrade and grabbed the man around the waist. Heaving him up onto his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, John turned to glare at the DI. “Whatever this paperwork is, he can do it in two days, because right now, I’m taking him home.”

Lestrade’s mouth dropped open. John Watson was not one to talk back to him. That was usually Sherlock’s line. John was always the one who encouraged Sherlock to fill out all the proper paperwork with the Yard, so that the cases they worked on had every ring of legality. So why did he stop him now? When he was just doing everything like usual?

“John,” Lestrade began. “We really need this stuff taken care of—”

“No you fucking don’t.” John cut him off. Loudly. And profanely. “Because have you ever heard of the rule of threes, Greg? Three minutes without oxygen, three days without water, three weeks without food. That’s all it takes to kill a man.” He nodded towards Sherlock’s nearly-unconscious form draped over his shoulder. “He’s on week two without food. Day five without sleep. Feeling his weight now,” John did a quick calculation, trying to feel how much lighter Sherlock was from the last time he held the man up against the wall and pounded into him. “He’s lost half a stone. If I hadn’t been forcing supplements into him, it would be a full stone.

“So either you can let me take him home and have him do the paperwork in two days—once he’s had some rest and a proper meal,” or seven. “Or, you can keep him here for another few hours, and end up with the world’s only consulting detective dead on your hands, and an ex-military doctor who knows a lot of ways to hurt you without leaving any evidence.”

He said all this with the body of one Sherlock Homes (a man who out-weighed him by at least thirty pounds, and had a good five inches on his height) thrown over his shoulder, and a murderous look in his eye pointed squarely at Detective Inspector Lestrade.

It didn’t take long for Lestrade to assess the choices given to him. “Take him home,” he whispered. “The paperwork will still be around when he’s well again.”

John’s glare softened at that. “Thanks.”

“John?” A voice behind him groaned. Sherlock. “Wha’s happening?” He slurred in exhaustion. “Does the Yard still need me?”

“Not right now, love,” the endearment slipped before John could catch it behind his teeth. In front of him, Sally gasped softly and Lestrade’s brow furrowed. But now that he said it, he wasn’t taking it back. “We’re going home. Detective Inspector Lestrade agreed that you would be of no use in this condition.”

Before they could stop him (John would like to see them try) he turned and went back down the stairs, Sherlock bouncing over the back of his shoulder, nose bumping into his ass with each step. He quickly found a cab and deposited Sherlock in the back.

“Oi!” The cabbie growled. “I don’t do drunks, mate!”

“He’s not drunk,” John said. “Just tired. He just came off a twenty-four hour shift at the Yard. I’m taking him home to sleep.” It wasn’t completely a lie. Sherlock wasn’t drunk, he did just come off a sort of shift with the Yard and John was taking him home. The only lie was how long the shift really was.

“Right,” the cabbie nodded. “Where to?”

“221B Baker Street,” John said. The cab took off from the curb and John set about rearranging Sherlock in his lap. He didn’t say anything—lest more endearments slip and they were outted further—but he spent the whole ride gently carding his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. The man was asleep. Dead asleep. Both good and bad. John desperately needed to get some food into him before he could catch up on that much needed rest.

When the cab pulled up to Baker Street, John got out and paid, then pulled Sherlock back over his shoulder. The seventeen steps up to their flat felt like seventeen million, but finally, John had Sherlock back home.

Making a straight line to their bedroom, John pushed open the already cracked door and dropped Sherlock into the bed. “We’re home now, love,” he whispered as quick fingers started stripping the man out of his clothes. It would be faster.

The jostling movements John made trying to wrestle Sherlock out of his pants woke the man. “John?” He mumbled. “Why aren’t we at the Yard?”

“Hush now,” John whispered, discarding the expensive clothes over his shoulder and settling Sherlock under the covers. “Wait right here, I’ll be back in a minute.” He leaned down to kiss those exhausted eyes, then turned and bolted from the room.

Back in the kitchen, John opened up their medicine cabinet. For months now, he’d been stocking the thing with more than just aspirin. Packages of sterol tubing, IV bags (he even had some blood tucked away in the back of the fridge) filled up three shelves. And it still didn’t seem like enough.

John grabbed some of the tubing and reached back for a banana bag. Ducking into the hall closet, he grabbed a stand for the IV and took it all back into the bedroom. Sherlock was asleep again. Yes, he could sleep for a while. John would wake him up later to get proper food into him; this would have to do for now.

John set about hooking up the tubing and placing the IV. When the needle pricked his skin, Sherlock didn’t even flinch. “Christ, he’s so dead,” John whispered to himself. He kind of wished it was a joke, but really, it wasn’t. Too long with no food and too little sleep… Sherlock could be in real danger here.

But John kept his mind focused. Hanging the banana bag, he gave it a few good squeezes to get the liquid flowing. At the first pump of the bag, Sherlock’s eyes shot open. “Oh God!” He moaned.

John smiled down at him and pumped the bag again. “Yes, yes love. There you go.”

“Uh, John….”

“Shush,” leaning down, John kissed those thin, waxy lips. “Get some rest. I’ll be right here.”

Barely a nod and Sherlock was asleep again. John knew that he should probably get some rest too, but he couldn’t. Not when Sherlock needed tending to.

Ducking out of the room, John walked back into the kitchen to get himself something to eat. Half a piece of toast hanging from his mouth, he turned to grab his mobile off the table, looking at it for the first time. Part of John wished he hadn’t picked it up. No less than twenty texts and seven missed calls met him. All but one came from the crew down at the Yard (the other was from Mycroft).

Lestrade, Anderson, Donavan, and a dozen other officers John was chummy with sent texts, all with the theme of:

 

_Sherlock? Are you kidding?_

Lestrade’s text was kinder: _Why didn’t you tell anyone? It’s great that you’re finally together._

Donovan’s text was just flat out rude: _Did the freak brainwash you? You wouldn’t be with him any other way._

Three more texts came in as John read through them. No. He wasn’t dealing with this now. Not when Sherlock needed his attention so much more. He put his phone on silent and slammed it down on the table. No more interruptions. Sherlock needed him now. He fetched another piece of toast, then went back into the bedroom. Sherlock was still sleeping. Good. Very good.

An hour passed. An hour of John watching Sherlock with a singular attention, the kind of attention the younger man gave crime scenes. For an hour, John moved when Sherlock moved. John’s breathing even fell into the same pattern as Sherlock’s. Quiet, restful, but unerringly vigilant.

After two hours, John replaced the banana bag with more fluids. Sherlock’s body drank it in so quickly, John actually thought he might run out before he was well again.

While John was in the middle of contemplating how long a trip out to replenish his stores would take, there was a knock at the door to the flat. “John dear?” Mrs. Hudson called. “John, is everything alright? How’s Sherlock doing?”

John didn’t answer. Don’t get him wrong, he loved Mrs. H and how she took care of them, but right now, he didn’t want to see anyone. Not unless they came bearing a crate full of IV bags.

“John dear,” Mrs. Hudson continued.

John leaned forward, his head dropping into his hands. “Go away,” he whispered. “Just go away.”

“John, I won’t ask you to open the door. But Mycroft’s people dropped by and you didn’t answer your bell.” Great, John thought. Mycroft really was the last thing he needed right now. “They left you something. I’ll just leave it here.”

John pulled his head from his hands. They left something? What could Mycroft’s people possibly leave for them? What could Mycroft possibly think they need? John was well aware that the cameras were still here (despite Mycroft’s promises that he took them all away) so maybe he could see what was going on.

Somewhat reluctantly, John got up from the chair and walked out of the bedroom. As quickly as he could, John walked out through the kitchen and opened the front door. Sitting on the floor at his feet was a basket full of more IV fluids, protein bars, and about ten cans of those nutrition drinks the hospital used for their elderly patients. Over the past two weeks, John had been feeding those to Sherlock every chance he got; they were the only reason he hadn’t completely wasted away during this case. When Sherlock woke up, John meant to feed him the remaining two cans he had in the fridge. Now he had more reserves and wouldn’t have to leave the flat for anything.

On top of the basket, a small folded note was balanced over the IV bags. John picked it up and read it.

 

_Anything you need, just call. –Mycroft_

John let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Mycroft.”

Feeling lighter than he had in weeks, John picked up the basket and went back into the flat. “John?” A weak voice from the bedroom called out.

“Sherlock,” John hissed under his breath. He picked up the pace and half-ran back into the bedroom. Peering around the open door, John saw Sherlock’s dull, tired eyes looking up at him behind half-closed lids.

Resting the basket on the end of the bed, John leaned down and rubbed a hand across Sherlock’s brow. “You should be asleep, love.”

Sherlock ignored that. Of course he did. He always ignored what his body needed. Even when it was needed so badly. “The case?” He mumbled, still half asleep.

John shook his head. “Don’t worry about the case. The case is done. You need to rest.”

“Why does my hand hurt?” Tired, gray eyes slid down to his hand. Taking in the needle, Sherlock followed the tubing up to the half-empty bag of fluids. “Why are you treating me for dehydration?”

John laughed despite himself. “Because you haven’t eaten or slept or drank anything substantial for two weeks.”

“Oh,” Sherlock nodded. After a second, his eyes went wide. “Oh!” Weak, hunger-thin arms reached up and grabbed at John. “John, I’m hungry!”

John could count on one hand how often he’d heard Sherlock say those words. “Well, if there was any time for you to be hungry, now would probably be it.” Laying a quick kiss across Sherlock’s lips, John reached over and grabbed one of the cans and popped it open. “Do you need help sitting up?”

“I’ve got it,” Sherlock said, then tried to push himself to a sitting position. His strength failed him after less than a second and he fell back onto the bed. “Or not,” he sighed.

“I’ve got you.” Sliding an arm behind Sherlock’s shoulders, John pulled him up to a sitting position. After arranging several of the pillows behind him to keep him propped up, John grabbed the can again and lifted it to Sherlock’s mouth.

All the tension and the fear building inside of John disappeared immediately as he watched Sherlock drink. He watched his throat muscles undulate as he swallowed the whole can in one go. It was the most beautiful thing John had ever seen.

“Yes, love.” John kissed Sherlock’s temple. “That’s good.”

When the can was empty and John pulled it away from his lips, Sherlock pulled a face. “I am capable, John. Though, the vanilla wasn’t a particularly inspired choice.”

For the first time, John looked down at the can in his hand. “Oh,” Sherlock hated the vanilla. “Sorry about that. Mycroft doesn’t know that you prefer strawberry and I just grabbed the first one in the basket.” As an apology, John ducked down and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s. “Forgive me?”

A weak smile looked up at him. “Always,” then, the smile faded. “Mycroft?” He asked.

“Oh, yeah,” John sighed. “Mrs. Hudson said that some of his people left a basket at the door.” John nodded down towards the foot of the bed. “Some IV bags for when my stores are depleted, some more of the drinks and some protein bars for later, when I have you back on solids.”

Sherlock made a noise. “As in, I’m off solids now?”

“Yes, you are.” John said very mater-of-factly. One last kiss and John pulled away, moving to change out the IV. “One more bag of fluids, two more cans—strawberry I promise—and then in three hours, you can start on the protein bars.”

“Food,” Sherlock said. “When do I get _food_?”

That made John stop. The number of times Sherlock had actually asked for something to eat, well, he only needed one finger to count that. John leaned down again. “Sherlock bloody Holmes, I could kiss you.”

“So kiss me,” Sherlock smiled.

Pressing his lips forward, that’s exactly what John did. But now he had to be serious. Standing back up, John checked the IV. “Three hours after you’ve had at least two of the protein bars, we can start you on simple stuff. Mashed potatoes. Beans on toast. Pasta. Bread. We can worry about balanced meals later; you need calories to start. And right now, you need more sleep.” A soft kiss to the detective’s temple.

Sherlock moaned. “For once, I agree with you.” At that, he grew silent. Less than a minute later, he started to snore delicately. John breathed a sigh of relief; Sherlock wouldn’t fight him on this. Everything just got so much easier.

Though he didn’t want to be gone long, John ducked into the kitchen and grabbed another banana bag from the cabinet, along with the two strawberry nutrition drinks that were still in the fridge. Just as he was about to return to the bedroom, a soft knock on the door stopped him.

John’s anger had faded a bit, so he had no problem opening the door this time. No one was there. Again, something stood at John’s feet. This time, it was a take away bag. The smell wafted up towards John; curry. His favorite.

“Mrs. Hudson?” He called. No answer. 

John reached down and picked up the bag, shutting the door and walking back inside the flat. Just like before, the bag had a note attached.

 

_A sick man cannot take care of the sick. Eat up. –Mycroft_

_  
_

Oh. It was for him. And it smelled divine. Suddenly, John was hungrier than he thought. But the deep growl from his stomach wouldn’t stop him: Sherlock came first. Sherlock would always come first.

Taking all the stuff (including the curry) into the bedroom, John set everything up for the easiest movement. When Sherlock woke up next, the drinks would be right there. And John would be there too.

When everything was set, John returned to the arm chair and opened the take away package. Trying not to make too much noise, he ate to his heart’s content. Though he wouldn’t admit it, whenever Sherlock stared his case-fasting cycle, John tended to eat less too. He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help it. Worrying about his lover always took precedence and his needs fell by the wayside. Good thing Mycroft seemed to disagree with this and thought to provide for John. 

So John ate the curry—his eyes never leaving Sherlock—and he settled in for a very long night.

 

~

 

Sherlock woke again two hours later when John was setting up another banana bag. He downed another of the drinks—strawberry this time—and fell back asleep. John didn’t dare look at the clock; he didn’t want to know how much longer he had until Sherlock was stable enough for solid food. He just wanted him to be stable, damn the waiting.

Two hours after that, Sherlock came off the IV. His eyes fluttered open at that and John wasted no time in getting another nutrition drink into him. “Thank you,” Sherlock said as he finished it up. “You know, with all the saline you’re pumping into me, I’m surprised you haven’t decided on the use of a catheter.”

“Thought about it,” John joked. “But that’s a good idea. Up you get.” The blankets peeled back easy enough and John fetched Sherlock’s dressing gown as the man pulled himself up. He was strong enough now—though just barely.

They walked to the bathroom together; thankfully, the door was just inside of their room and it wasn’t too long of a walk. The over-protective (slightly possessive) side of John would love nothing better to stand there while Sherlock did his business and make sure everything was working properly, but the rational doctor knew that Sherlock needed a moment to himself.

“I’ll leave you to it,” John said and walked back into the bedroom.

While Sherlock had his time, John stripped the bed, changing the sheets and putting the room to rights. The medical equipment either went in the hazardous waste bin Sherlock had in the kitchen/lab or back into the medicine cabinet. Two more strawberry flavored drinks were fished from the basket Mycroft left and the rest were stored away.

Just as John had everything in the kitchen in order, a soft voice called through the flat. “John?”

All the calm Sherlock’s recovery brought disappeared immediately. Turning on his heel, John raced for the bathroom and ripped open the door. “What?” He asked, frantic. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Sherlock said. He sat on the closed lid of the toilet, dressing gown between his too-thin backside and the cold surface. Whisper thin arms reached out. “Come here.”

Not needing to be asked twice, John moved into the circle of Sherlock’s arms. “You sure everything is alright?”

“Mm, not yet.” John bristled again. He was about to ask what he could do—anything for Sherlock, he could have anything—when he felt a pulling at his belt. Still skin-and-bones fingers worked to open his trousers. “But it will be.”

“Sherlock,” John moaned at the first touch against his cock. Another thing they’d gone without for two weeks: sex. Sex always became a zero priority when Sherlock was on a case. As his usual case turnover was less than three days, John never minded, and with all the other problems of this case, he really didn’t notice. But.

“Sherlock,” he said again. John made a valiant effort to pull away from the man, but those arms held him in place.

“Hush now,” he said, lips ghosting over the head of John’s cock. “You think we should wait until my strength is up? Until after I’ve had a proper meal?”

“Or seven,” John managed to gasp out while those hands did lovely, sinful things to him. Sliding down between his legs, cupping his balls and squeezing ever so… “Christ, Sherlock. No. This is—”

“Hush, I said.” Sherlock ordered, fingers skating over John’s foreskin. “You think I need a good meal? Well, doctor, we both know that semen is very high in sugars, electrolytes and is a very good source of protein. Isn’t that exactly what I need at this time?”

John couldn’t find the words to object, he just looked down at Sherlock. Sherlock looked back. “You’ve spent the last two weeks—the last few hours the most intensely—taking care of me. Let me take care of you.”

Without another word, Sherlock leaned forward and wrapped his lips around John. And boy did Sherlock go to fucking town. His tongue lashed against the soft skin, and his throat muscles contracted like he was actually swallowing something. Copious amounts of pre-come would be John’s guess. And all he could do was stand there—one hand braced on Sherlock’s shoulder, the other buried in the dark curls—as Sherlock sucked and sucked. Like he was getting some kind of sustenance from John.

Seventeen days, roughly. Seventeen days since they’d done this…. John wasn’t going to last long. He knew that. But he couldn’t make it stop. Sherlock’s warm, talented (hungry) mouth brought him closer and closer to the edge. Tongue dipped into the slit and John’s toes curled against the bathroom tiles. So. Fucking. Close.

Then, in one deep swallow, Sherlock took him all in. The muscles of his throat teased at the head of John’s cock and it was game over. John came. Screaming out into the silence of the flat, John came harder than he could really remember. Sherlock swallowed it all down. Not one drip escaped that lovely mouth.

When he could finally think again, the still-horny part of John’s brain argued with the doctor bit, telling him that semen was indeed a decent substitute for a meal. For now.

When he had all of his faculties back, John noticed that now, he was sitting on the closed lid of the toilet and Sherlock stood in front of him. Wet, pink tongue darted out to lick at his lips. “You had a curry several hours ago.” He smiled. John smiled back.

“Happy?” He asked.

Sherlock nodded and leaned down to nuzzle against John’s ear. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Right,” marshalling all of his energy, John pulled himself to his feet and wrapped an arm around Sherlock, walking him back to the bedroom and back into bed. “We can start on the protein bars now. Unless you want more sleep?”

“I think we can skip the protein bars,” Sherlock said. “I’ve already had my first meal.” John arched an eyebrow and pretty pink lips twitched into a smile. Pulling him closer, Sherlock smiled against John’s mouth. “I’ve already had a full helping of good English come.” John snorted. “So unless you would like to donate more to my stomach, beans on toast would suffice.” Pause. “Please.” He added.

John smirked and kissed the man again. “Well, since you asked so nicely.” One more kiss and John was off, into the kitchen to make Sherlock his requested food.

Fifteen minutes later, he sat on the bed with Sherlock, watching the man practically inhale his food. “Thank you, darling.” Sherlock moaned, teeth crunching into the toast.

A small smile pulled at John’s lips. Sherlock wasn’t overly fond of endearments, but when he felt the situation called for it—like after he nearly starved himself to death—he was not shy about telling John just how much he cared. Oh, that reminded him.

“Sherlock,” John sighed. “I’m afraid I might have… outted us at the Yard.” Sherlock stopped mid-bite. Eyes slid over to John. “I couldn’t stand it anymore.” John said. “You were so weak, and Lestrade wanted to keep you longer… I couldn’t stand there and watch you suffer. Not after two weeks of this shit. So I picked you up and hauled you out and—”

John saw the smirk slowly crawling across Sherlock’s face and stopped. “You know, don’t you?” he sighed.

“Yes,” he nodded. Using his free hand, Sherlock reached under the pillow and pulled out his mobile. Forty or fifty unanswered messages splashed across the screen.

John frowned. “They’ve been bothering you too? Sally’s comments have been particularly vile.”

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded. “I agree.”

Then John stopped again. “Wait,” he said. “I stripped your clothes,” his eyes traveled to the pile on the floor at the end of the bed. “Your mobile was in your jacket pocket.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Not always.”

Again, John’s brain paused. Sherlock had just spent the greater part of the last twelve hours naked in bed. If his mobile wasn’t in his jacket….

John’s eyes raked over Sherlock’s still too-thin body. “Where were you keeping it?” Though really, he didn’t want to know. Sherlock just smiled.

 

~

 

Two days later, just as promised, John delivered one just a little bit heavier Sherlock to New Scotland Yard to finish the paperwork on the case.

While Sherlock sat bent over a desk, signing reports handed to him by some nameless PC, Lestrade walked over to stand next to John. “He looks better.” He said, handing John a cup of coffee.

John took it with a nod. “Only managed to get a pound and a half on him so far. Give me about a week and I’ll have him back to rights.” He took a sip of the coffee, trying to avoid any further conversation. He knew it wouldn’t work, but John would try.

Lestrade nodded and fell silent for a moment. John even started to hope that he would get his wish, when “I told everyone to be quiet about it.” He said. John rolled his eyes. “So don’t worry,” Lestrade continued. “No one’s gonna bother you. But,” it was that but that John hated. “Why did you keep it a secret? Not like we all didn’t already know—”

“Greg,” John cut him off, turning to glare at the man. “It’s no one’s business.” He snapped.

Clearly, Lestrade didn’t get it, because he took another step towards John. “It’s not like it used to be. You don’t have to hide—”

“We’re not hiding!” John cut him off again. “It really is no one’s business what Sherlock and I get up to. And I knew,” his eyes dropped closed in anger as Sally walked into the office. She immediately looked from Sherlock to John, giving John a questioning look and miming so loud, it could wake the dead. “I knew that some people would make a fuss. Fuss we didn’t need.” Lestrade didn’t even need to look; he knew what Sally was doing.

Straightening up, he nodded. “Right,” he said. “No one’s business. I’ll make that very clear. No one will bother you.”

Eyes still closed, John nodded. “Thanks, Greg.”

Lestrade walked off to have a word with Sally and John opened his eyes, looking back at Sherlock as he finished up the last of the paperwork.

A few minutes later, he popped up from his seat. With a swirl of his coat, Sherlock completely deleted the PC’s existence and walked over to John. “Can we leave now?” He asked.

“Yes,” John nodded stiffly. “We can get take away from that Chinese place at the end of Baker Street. You’re getting steak and something—your iron count is still too low.”

Sherlock smiled. “Whatever the doctor orders.”

Before John knew what was happening, Sherlock’s hand grabbed his, pulling him close until their lips were just a whisper away. “What are you doing?” John asked. He couldn’t force himself to pull back, but the confusion was still there, maybe twinged with a bit of anger.

Sherlock shook his head. “We’re out. It doesn’t matter anymore.” His eyes swept over John’s face, reading the fear, uncertainty and every other emotion written there. “John,” he said quietly, so that only they could hear. “I wanted to protect you from what enemies might hurt you. I still do. But…” for a split second, Sherlock actually looked… John couldn’t name that emotion, but it was an emotion. Something very new to both of them. “I don’t want to make you watch me waste away like that ever again.

“Your discretion over our relationship tied your hands. It’s my fault I ended up in that state, and you couldn’t properly take care of me to prevent me from getting that bad.” A light squeeze to John’s hand. “I don’t ever want to do that to you again.”

Suddenly, Sherlock leaned down and planted a kiss on John’s lips. It wasn’t as passionate as their kisses behind closed doors, but it wasn’t exactly chaste. If anyone at the Yard hadn’t heard they were together, they sure as hell knew now.

Sherlock was the first to pull back. “Let’s go home?” He asked.

“Yes,” John nodded. “Oh God yes.”

The End


End file.
